Page 129 of Raspados & Regret

“I know. That’s why it’s funny.”

I shove the lids at him. “You look good.”

He freezes and so do I. The words sit there between us, stupid and naked.

His face changes, and it is small.

A flicker.

Hurt getting confused by want.

“That sounded painful for you,” he says.

“It was.”

“You need a sticker?”

“I need you to stop being weird.”

His eyes narrow. “I’m being weird?”

“Yes.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re avoiding me.”

He sets the lids down too carefully. “I’m giving you time.”

“I didn’t ask you to stop talking to me.”

“You asked for time.”

“I asked to figure out what I’m comfortable with people knowing.”

“Yeah.” His voice drops. “And I’m a person.”

That hits, and before I can answer, someone at the counter calls, “Can I get a mango with extra chamoy?”

Elías steps away.

Just like that, the conversation’s over.

I stand there with my hands flexing at my sides and the whole market roaring around me, trying not to feel like I just lost something I only got to hold for one night.

The night keeps moving because the night market does not care about my emotional damage. Orders come fast enough to keep my hands busy, but not my head. My head keeps replaying his voice.

And I’m a person.

Like I made him part of the crowd.

Like I made him one more person I have to manage. I didn’t mean to, and that’s the problem. I keep not meaning to hurt him and doing it anyway.

I catch him looking at me twice, and both times, he looks away first.

I hate that too.

So I try harder.